


Another Bad Idea

by MaverikLoki



Series: A Comedy of Assholes (Rhapsody, etc.) [22]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Abuse of Magebane, Alcohol, Angst, Angst and Humor, Artie No, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, OCD!Hawke, Pining, Self-Hatred, mage!Hawke hates being a mage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-16 18:33:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5836306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaverikLoki/pseuds/MaverikLoki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being a mage in Kirkwall is utter shite. </p><p>Being a mage in Ferelden had been utter shite too, but Ferelden didn't have Fenris, the gorgeous, mage-hating porcupine of an elf Artemis Hawke can't stop thinking about. Between him and the templars, when Artie finds a way he might be rid of his magic, the temptation is too much.</p><p>It ends about as well as expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. That's Not Whiskey

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of the Rhapsody 'verse, set in Act One. It's fairly self-contained, but it follows [An Interest in Elven... Culture](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3971134/chapters/8908984), the fic where Artie and Fenris meet, for anyone who's interested.
> 
> In this 'verse, both Bethany and Carver live, and Artie has two other brothers, one older (Cormac, belonging to [Penbrydd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/penbrydd/)) and one younger (Anton, belonging to [Saiya_Tina](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Saiya_tina/pseuds/Saiya_tina)). This fic is Artie-centric, but all the siblings make cameos.

Anders dropped a pair of boots at Artie’s feet. “Here,” he said in answer to Artie’s quizzical look. “I’ve had to watch you limp all afternoon, and that templar’s not going to be needing them any more.”

Artemis felt his skin heat, starting at the back of his neck. “I… had sand in my shoe,” he hedged, tucking his toes under his foot so they wouldn’t poke through his shoes’ holes.

“Honestly, at this point, it’s more like you have a shoe in your sand.” Anders pointed at the boots. “Try them on. They look like your size.”

Artie obeyed, kicking off his shoes and wrestling on the new ones. Old ones. Ones that were just on a dead man. Best not to think of that. Even though there was no blood on them, Artie itched to scrub the boots inside and out, just to be sure. They fit, not quite like a glove but well enough that he could move easily in them. “Just how long were you staring at my feet that you figured out my size?” he asked.

“Maybe he was trying to figure out the size of something else,” Isabela teased. “You know what they say about a man’s feet.” She caught Artie glancing at Fenris’s feet and grinned.

But then Artie looked at Anders’s, and his eyes bugged. 

“I’m tall!” Anders said, almost defensively. “My… _feet_ are proportional!”

“To Qunari,” Isabela told Anton out of the side of her mouth.

“I’m going to pretend we’re still discussing feet,” Anton said cheerfully, “for the sake of my sanity. Oh, look! Shiny!”

“Where?” Isabela asked even as she snatched the ring before he could. Anton sighed and settled for the coin purse.

While Anton and Izzy poked at the bodies, Anders poked at the vegetation. "This looks like Felandaris," he said, gesturing Artie over. "Was that on the list Solivitus gave you?"

"Ah! Perfect." With his fingers in his sleeve, Artie plucked the flowers and a few leaves. The oils always made his hands blister. "You're a life saver."

"Always happy to be of service to the Hawkes."

“Anders.” The mage caught the vial Anton threw his way. “What’s in that, do you think? Healing? Whiskey? If it’s either of those, I’m keeping it.”

Anders laughed. "You're assuming I'd give it back." But the moment he uncorked the bottle, his face drained of colour and expression.

“Anders?” Artemis stepped in front of him, concerned by the hollow look in his eyes.

With clammy hands, Anders corked the vial and pressed it into Artie’s hand. The bottle was crusted with sand and felt gritty against his palm. "Magebane. Dispose of it.”

“Magebane?” Artemis asked. 

“A poison the templars make to keep unruly mages in check.” Anders’s eyes flickered blue, and Artie took a step back. “It robs them of their magic.”

Artemis turned over the vial in his hand, his face turning grey. “Is this how they make mages Tranquil?”

Anders shook his head, blue lines flickering over his cheeks. “The effects are temporary.”

Fenris’s eyes narrowed. “That’s possible?”

“Yes, it is. Now get rid of it.”

But Fenris shook his head. “Perhaps we should hold onto it. If I am to face Danarius…”

Anders snarled, flickering touches of blue turning bright and blazing. 

“I’m on the run from a _magister_ ,” Fenris snarled, glowing in kind. “I will take what advantage I can scrape!”

Artemis feared for his life, standing between the two of them, but he was more afraid of what would happen if he stepped out of their way. Before things could escalate, he upended the vial and poured it into the sand.

“It’s gone!” Artie cut over them. “The point is moot!”

Mollified, Justice receded, blue eyes fading to an angry – if tired – amber. Fenris sheathed his sword but growled, looking nothing less than betrayed.

“Mages,” he spat. “Of course. You always look out for one another first!”

‘Mage’. In a city like Kirkwall, that might as well be his name.

“Fen…” he started to say, but the elf stormed on without stopping.

 

Home was a battle on another front. 

“Get back the estate? With three mage children? You must be joking, Carver,” Leandra snapped. "It would be one thing if it were just Cormac and Bethy, but he’d make the house shake if he so much as spotted a mote of dust!” She gestured flippantly at Artemis, who hid a wince with a slow blink. “He’s a disaster!”

“That’s not what makes him shake the house,” Carver muttered, and Artie jabbed him with his elbow.

“Mum,” Bethany said, offended on Artie’s behalf, but he caught her eye and shook his head.

“A bit hyperbolic,” he said softly, addressing the table, “but her point is valid. It’s one thing to hide in Lowtown, where no one important cares about you, but Hightown?” A selfish part of him wished Cormac were here to take the brunt of her scolding, but he already got more than his fair share of that.

“Artie,” Bethany said, voice somewhere between sad and disappointed. "That’s not true. A place in Hightown would give us leverage, and so would a noble title.”

A title that should have been Leandra’s to begin with, that would have been, if she hadn’t married a mage. Artie never thought to ask if she regretted that, but right now, in the slope of her shoulders, the grim set of her jaw, he knew she did. That might change in a minute, in a day, a month, but right now? Right now she was thinking that magic had ruined her life.

“It is pointless,” she sighed, and, Maker help him, Artie agreed.

 

Sleep was elusive that night. Artie had caught what fragments he could, but Cormac hadn’t made it home. He wouldn’t – couldn’t – rest easy until all his family was accounted for, as ridiculous as he knew that was, since Cormac was probably off with that healer again. That didn’t stop the images of templars seizing him or of darkspawn tearing him apart.

The empty vial in his hand had a film, crusted with sand and dirt, and there was something satisfying about the way it flaked off under Artie’s fingernail, revealing bits of the glass beneath. 

Mage, mage, mage. A noun, a title, a curse. A condemnation. How much did the Maker hate him to make him like this? Did the Maker know when he was born how vile he’d grow up to be? 

Useless thinking, that, but Artie had scraped clean half the vial by the time he could stem his thoughts. In the thin moonlight, the traces of liquid inside looked a tepid green. He'd meant to give the empty vial back to Anders, another vial for another potion, but the man had been distracted and shaken. Artie had slipped it into a pocket and forgotten about it.

What would it have tasted like? How much would he need to drink for it to work? Would it be like liquid Smite, deadening everything? 

Maybe it would shut up his brain long enough for him to stop counting roof beams.

“This is ridiculous.”

Artie slipped the vial away and returned to his hunt for sleep.


	2. That's Not Fenris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life in Kirkwall can be frustrating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand here we have the reason for the M rating...

“Fen,” Artie sighed, the elf’s breath hot on his cheek. He hooked a leg over Fenris’s hip, knob already aching just at the touch of Fenris’s skin on his. Every inch of him was overheated and sensitive, the barest brush of Fenris’s finger like a current running just under his skin. “Oh, _Fen_.”

“Mage,” Fenris growled in Artemis’s ear. Artie couldn’t tell if the word was from anger or desire, but it didn’t matter. Fenris could kill him, and Artie would thank him for it.

A clawed hand on Artie’s ass pulled him close, Artie’s knob following the dip of muscle just to the inside of Fenris’s hip. Artie whimpered, feeling Fenris’s length hard and hot against his belly as he ground against that patch of skin, riding the taut thigh Fenris pressed against his balls. “I want you in me,” Artie groaned, desperate and shameless. “ _Please_. Let me feel you.” He should slow down, he _knew_ he should slow down, but he couldn’t seem to stop the roll of his hips. He was going to come like this, humping Fenris’s leg like a desperate teenager, but this was _Fenris_ , beautiful, terrifying Fenris with the sharp humour and the sad eyes and the voice Artie could feel in his bones.

Fenris’s response was a wordless growl and a bruising bite at the base of Artie’s neck.

Pleasure bloomed hot and sweet at the base of his spine, every touch electric… even the clawed finger Fenris brushed along his hole, the tease of sharp steel as dangerous as it was intoxicating. 

As Artie quaked in his arms and spilled over his hip, Fenris bent to lick Artie’s face, leaving a gleaming wet stripe up his cheek and – wait.

Artie was still panting, hips still moving and shivering as he woke up under an onslaught of dog slobber. 

This… wasn’t Fenris’s house. This was _Gamlen’s_ house, Gamlen’s floor. And he’d been rutting against his brother’s hip.

Artie froze, eyes wide. So his brother _had_ come in last night. Under the blanket, Cormac’s nightshirt was sticky, but his brother was still asleep, breathing deep and even. _Maker_. Artie didn’t dare move away for fear of waking him. 

“Mrph. Mintaka!” Artemis buried his face in his pillow, but Mintaka took that as an invitation to clean his ears.

Slowly, carefully, Artie unwound himself from Cormac, pulling the blanket over his head to ward off more dog drool. 

“Go bother Anton,” he muttered. Mintaka whined and pawed at the blanket.

“Anton’s at the Rose again.” And that? That was their sister’s voice, and the laughter he could hear in it told him just how much she’d seen. “I doubt we’ll see him before noon.”

Privacy. It was something Artie had had little of most of his life, sharing a house with four siblings, but it was something he had less of now, sharing a _room_ with four siblings. 

“Carver, on the other hand,” Bethany went on, as though this were a perfectly normal conversation. Which for them, Artie supposed, it was. “He left after the second time you said Fenris’s name in your sleep.” A slurping sound told Artie she had made tea. “I suspect we won’t be seeing him before noon either.”

“Or my face,” Artemis decided, groaning. 

He was almost grateful when Mintaka sat on his head.

 

Artie wasn’t sure he could look Fenris in the eye, but the elf was waiting for him outside the ruined mansion, a shadow under the eaves. His white hair was a dappled blue in the bushes’ moving shade.

“Mage.”

Some days, Artemis wished Fenris would call him something else.

“Fenris.” Artemis tipped his head in greeting. “According to Isabela, our man holed up in the docks, this morning. Might not hurt to bring the healer, if he’s expecting trouble.”

Fenris’s guarded look soured as he pushed off the wall, bringing the two of them dangerously close. “We don’t need the abomination.”

“Sorry, disagree.” Artie folded his arms across his chest. “Either we bring the healer or I go back and get the necromancer.”

Horror widened green eyes. “Your sister?”

Artie nodded grimly.

“…healer it is.”

 

They opened the clinic door to the sound of screams, loud and sharp enough that it was a wonder they hadn’t heard them from outside. Artemis flushed a deep red and, in trying to back out the door, bumped into Fenris, who already had his sword drawn, tattoos lit with Fade glow.

“Is someone killing the abomination?” Fenris growled. And that was interesting, Fenris concerned for Anders’s safety. “I might want to help them.” Or not.

Artemis considered calling his bluff. “That’s not Anders,” he said, staring at the ceiling as though its beams were the architectural marvel of the century. “That’s… that’s Cormac.” And the last thing Artie needed right now. 

Another ringing shout echoed from the back, and one of Fenris’s ears jutted out. “Your brother? Then who is killing _him_?”

 _“Oh, yes! Split me open with your dick! Make me bleed!”_  

“Anders’s knob would be my guess,” Artie muttered. This was vengeance, wasn’t it? For the morning’s embarrassing interlude?

Any wider, and Fenris’s eyes would fall out of their sockets. “I… see.”

Artie nudged him towards the door and shut it behind him. “Maybe, er… Maybe you were right. We’ve got enough potions to last us.”

Dammit, Cormac. Artie knew too well the images that went with those sounds, images his knob was more interested in than it had any right to be, the treacherous shit.

Artie counted the coins in his pocket. Enough for a hot meal and a bottle of something vulgar-tasting but strong at the Rose, but not enough for its… more specialised services. Which was fine, really. Earthquakes would bring Templars and a bad ending for his happy ending. Thank you, Knight-Commander of Kirkwall.

And that was the heart of the issue. It was Meredith’s fault Artie wasn’t getting laid.

Killing slavers, at least, made for a good distraction and helped him burn off energy he would rather put into something else. Something else involving Fenris’s glowing ass and sinuous arms.

“The two of us should be enough,” Fenris decided, still looking bewildered. Artie hummed in agreement before remembering what Fenris was talking about. “But perhaps we could stop at the Hanged Man, first? I need to rinse those sounds out of my memory.” Artie had never seen an elf’s ears _vibrate_ before. “Do you think it would work if I poured whisky directly into my ears?”

“Worth a try. You sit, I’ll pour.”


	3. That's Not Going to be Fun in the Morning

Artemis wobbled drunkenly down the street, the arm under his armpits the only thing keeping him mostly vertical. He smacked his lips against the taste of vomit, head pounding in time to his pulse. It was a familiar feeling. Maker, how much did he drink? 

Moonlight burned and blurred. The road tilted towards him, and the arm around him tightened. 

"Mage." Fenris's voice at his ear, the deep growl of it shivering down his neck. "I need you to stay awake."

Fenris sounded disappointingly sober, but his body was hard and steady against his. Artie had no doubt Fenris could sling him over his shoulder and carry him off if he wanted to. Artemis wished he would.

"Mage," Fenris said again, more insistently, and one hand took Artemis's chin, tilting the mage's face up and to the side. His claws were gentle against Artie’s skin.

"Mm?" Fenris's face was close, green eyes filling his sight, and finally Artemis realised that he'd been expecting a reply. "Oh. Sure. Don't fall asleep in the street." His tongue felt heavy, and the words echoed strangely. "S'bad manners."

Fenris nearly smiled, just the barest twitch of his lips before he let go of Artie's chin. The arm around Artie's waist tugged, and Artie's feet remembered how to move. "If you need to throw up, let me know. I'd rather not get it on my feet this time."

Artemis looked down at Fenris's feet, lyrium lines a ghostly glow in the dark, but trying to read the moving shadows just made his head ache more. "S'why the Maker invented shoes," he said, looking away before he could end up vomiting on them anyway.

"To not get vomited on by mages?" Fenris replied, and this time he did smile. "The Maker is wise, indeed."

"'Cept for the inventing mages part," Artemis said. He flopped one arm in the air, the other fisted in Fenris's armour. "Another way to avoid mage-puke, that. Simpler, too."

It occurred to Artie that this wasn't the sort of thing he usually said aloud. Mostly because he loved the mages he knew that weren't him.

The silence between replies was thoughtful. 

"Shouldn't those be my words?" Fenris asked carefully. He tightened his grip again as Artie teetered. "I'm... Coming from you, they sound..."

"Yes?"

A deep breath. "They sound _wrong_."

Artie wasn't going to dwell on that. Not while he was drunk and it was dark. Dwelling and drunk led to stupid things he'd regret in the morning. Like wishing he hadn't poured out that magebane.

The light shifted just enough that Artie could make out the smear of blood down the inside of Fenris's arm. It was hard to tell where the blood was coming from. Possibly from his shoulder, hidden by his armour and the dark. Artie wondered if he should be the one supporting Fenris. 

"Are you all right?" Artemis asked, perhaps sounding more concerned than he meant to.

The look Fenris gave him was difficult to parse. "Yes, I'm all right."

Artemis nodded, only to find that was a terrible idea. He hissed, resting his head on Fenris's shoulder, sweat beading along his forehead as he fought the nausea twisting in his stomach.

"Breathe," Fenris reminded him. Then both hands gripped Artemis under the armpits, turning him sharply just as he choked out more bile. Over his own feet this time. 

Fenris caught him as he sagged, pulling Artemis's arm across his shoulder. Spiky armour pinched in places, but Artemis's headache screamed for his full attention. What _had_ he been drinking that it hurt this bad?

"Are _you_ all right?" Fenris asked, tone somewhere between wry and genuine.

Artie swallowed. "Mouth tastes like vomit."

"Well, it would."

They walked on for a bit, more slowly this time, until the arm around Artie's waist squeezed. "Watch your step," Fenris told him.

By 'step', he meant 'steps' in the plural sense, as in stairs, leading down. And that was odd, wasn't it? There were stairs somewhere in the vicinity of Gamlen's, if he recalled correctly, but those were up stairs. Stairs that led up. To the door. Not down. Where was down? He tried to remember, but, Maker, his _head_...

"Where're we going?"

He had to say it again before Fenris caught all the garbled words.

"The healer's," Fenris answered patiently. And that was odd, Fenris calling Anders 'healer' instead of 'abomination'.

"S'pose that makes sense," Artie said. Anders had to be done with Cormac by now, and he'd feel much better knowing that Anders had healed Fenris’s arm. Maybe he could do something for Artie's headache while he was there.

Time moved a bit oddly after that, like it had forgotten how to work. Seconds dragged on. Minutes disappeared. Fenris's voice threaded the time together, his grip getting tighter as they walked. 

"It's just a bit farther." Artemis wasn't sure, but he thought Fenris had just said that a moment ago. The hand holding Artie's wrist over Fenris's shoulder was going to leave bruises. Or worse, with those claws. Artemis's legs were noodles, but they stayed upright, for Fenris. Anything for Fenris. 

Sweat dripped in Artie's eyes, making it hard to see, as words dribbled past his lips. Maker, he was so tired. Maybe he should sleep it off... rest here and let Fenris go to the healer. His lips moved in an approximation of those words as sweat continued to drip, drip down the side of his face.

"Stay with me," Fenris said, and his voice sounded off, wrong. He sounded _afraid_. But it was getting harder to keep his eyes open. "Artemis."

Noodle-legs gave out. Fenris scooped them up before Artemis could fall, head cradled against Fenris's chest as the world shifted sideways.

 

Healing washed over Artie, first hot then cold, shivering down to tingle in his fingertips. At the spell's epicentre was the white-hot nexus of pain on the side of Artie's face, just above the temple. He whimpered as Anders disentangled the knot of pain, knitting wounds and soothing bruises he didn't remember getting.

"Fen," Artemis mumbled, casting about for the elf, trying to find him through the spots in his eyes. "Fenris, he's..."

"He's right here, Artie. Just relax." Anders held him down with a hand on his chest, still casting.

Fenris stood over the two of them, ears twitching at odd angles. He offered Artemis a weak smile.

"Should... heal _him_." Artie pointed at Fenris. Or tried to. Everything was swaying a little. "S'arm."

Fenris and Anders exchanged a puzzled look, and Fenris turned over his arms, looking them over. Anders's brow smoothed over when he saw the blood.

"Artie. That's your blood."

"...what?"

"How much do you remember?" Anders asked, still casting, his hand cool on the side of Artie's face.

"I... the Hanged Man?” 

Fenris nodded, still hovering awkwardly over the mages. “We were there, but we left after one drink. We were on our way to the Docks, to follow-up with the slaver contact you’d found, but we were waylaid. Brigands, disguised as city guards. Your... magic handled most of them, but then I heard a clang and looked to see you bleeding from the head." He shook his head in amazement. "You didn't fall. You were still standing when I went to you."

"Next to impossible to knock down a force mage," Anders explained. " _Falling_ down is another issue, especially when drinks are involved."

Artie wished he could remember.

Anders held up a finger in front of Artemis's face. "Artie? Watch my finger." He moved it side to side, and Artie’s eyes followed. "Good. You had a pretty nasty concussion, you know." 

Artemis reached up to wipe the sweat from brow, and the back of his hand came back smeared with blood. Oh. Not sweat then.

"Don't tell my brother," Artie pleaded. "He'll call me an idiot but somehow think this was his fault."

"Which brother?" Anders asked, wiping bloody hands on a rag.

Artemis gave him a look. "You know which brother. The one you see more than I do, these days." And that wasn't bitterness in his voice. It wasn't.

Anders's gaze skittered to the side, and he cleared his throat. He rose, escaping Artie's stare long enough to wet a cloth, handing it to Artemis. "I know how you are with messes," he said. "And I won't say anything, but you're staying here tonight."

"Yes, Mum," Artie sighed, but he wiped down his face and made no move to leave. Neither did Fenris, who loomed by Artemis’s cot as though standing guard. He stayed there, even after Anders told him Artie would be safe and long after Artemis had drifted off to sleep.

 

It wasn’t the first time Artie had woken in a strange place, and certainly not the first time he’d done so with a murderous headache. Rough stone, scratchy cot. The clinic. Right.

“Fen?” He looked behind him, where the elf had been the night before, and a hiss of pain escaped his teeth as he moved. 

Healing washed over him before he even saw Anders, hunched over a desk and writing furiously with the hand that wasn’t casting. “He left a few hours ago to go finish the job. Planned to take Izzy with him, if I recall, and he better not end up dragging her back here, passed out and bleeding too, or we will need to have Words.”

“Fenris saved my life,” Artemis reminded him, relaxing into the warmth of Anders’s healing. It wasn’t like his brother’s. It was warmer, stronger, a stream versus a trickle, and it reminded him of their dad’s magic, of blue light sealing over stubbed toes and scraped knees.

“Your _magic_ saved your life,” Anders countered, and when he finally looked Artie’s way, Artie could have sworn his eyes were blue. “He was the one who put it in danger in the first place.” Anders finished writing, and it seemed to take great physical effort to set the quill down and pull away from the desk.

“You are hard on him,” Artemis said, sitting up gingerly as Anders pulled up a stool in front of him. He could feel his brain shift as he moved.

“That’s because, unlike you, I don’t have a hard-on for him.” Anders gently cupped Artie’s chin and turned his head, fingers prodding at perfectly healed skin. “How’s your head feel?”

“Heavy,” Artie answered. Another wave of healing followed, this time directed at the back of his neck, and the tightness in his forehead eased. He sagged in relief. “That obvious, is it?”

“Painfully.” Anders patted his cheek and sat back. “But I still think he’s a pointy-eared shit. You can do better.”

“Are you offering?” Artie teased with a crooked smile. “And here I thought you had your hands full with my brother.”

“My hands aren’t the only thing filled when I’m with your brother.”

Artemis choked out a laugh, feeling his cheeks and back of his neck heat. “That was vile.”

Anders’s grin was unapologetic. “I know.” He rose, returning with a healing potion. “Drink half tonight, another half in the morning.”

“I can see why he likes you. How is he… by the way?”

Anders’s brows knit. “Who, Cormac?”

Artemis nodded, nails tapping against the glass in his hands. The texture was different from the templar's vial he'd emptied, the glass finer. “Haven’t seen much of him this week.” Was it incredibly needy to miss someone you lived with? 

Anders’s look softened. “And it’s just your luck to end up in my clinic when he’s not around, is it? Things have been quiet down here, but that never lasts.”

Not an answer, not really, but Artemis nodded and thanked him anyway.

 

Cobblestones passed underfoot as Artemis counted his steps -- in intervals of three, because three was a good number -- so that he wouldn't have to make eye-contact with the templars or the few hollow-eyed mages they let out of the tower. If he didn't look, they couldn't see him for what he was. Ridiculous, he knew, but ever since he was a child, just seeing a templar put his heart in his throat. 

Solivitus greeted him with an easy smile and a wave, and Artie wondered what it was like to live without that fear. “Young Serah Hawke,” he said. “Always a pleasure.” 

The inflection gave Artemis pause. Not just a pleasure, but a _pleasure._ Was he...? Certainly not. “Uh. Good afternoon, Solivitus. Morning, rather. Almost-afternoon. I have some herbs for you.” 

Solivitus’s smile was bright in the sun. So was his bald spot, and Artemis was always surprised to find that charming too. “Do you, now? Let’s see what you have.” 

Artemis handed over one satchel. “Elfroot and spindleweed. I grabbed some embrium as well while I was up in the mountains. Thought it might add some vigour to your restoratives.” Artemis handed over the other. “Deep mushrooms, deathroot. Are you in the business of poisons?” 

“For vermin,” Solivitus sighed. Leaning in conspiratorially, he said, “The Circle has a rat problem, and rumour has it the Knight-Commander is terrified of them. Or was it the First Enchanter?” 

Artemis tried not to laugh at that and ended up just making weird, twisting faces. "That explains the root and the mushrooms," he said, "but not the felandaris you also asked for. Which is also in there, by the way." 

Solivitus nodded, wearing the penitent look of one who had been found out. "A special commission, I'm afraid," he said. "And I will speak no more of it, for your sake and mine. I admit to being impressed, however. I would not have taken you for an herbalist." 

“I’m… I’m not. Not really. Dad knew a few things and tried to teach me. Us. My brother and sister took to it much better than I did, which… I still don’t understand. I know the recipes, but when I make them, they always come out wrong. And I always check. Always, always.” 

Solivitus looked down at Artie’s hand where it scratched at his arm, and Artemis flushed, making a fist and putting his hands behind his back. “You overthink things, don’t you?” 

"Possibly. Probably." 

Solivitus chuckled. “Then that’s why. You know, you remind me a bit of my son." 

"Your...son?" Artemis stuttered. "That's--" horrifying "--sweet?" 

"Not really. He's hopeless." 

Artie's laugh was weak and unconvincing as Solivitus set the satchels aside and pulled out his coin purse. As he waited, Artemis studied the neatly lined potions behind him, the herbs hung up to dry. The display was soothing in its exactness, and for a moment, Artemis didn't feel the need to count, at least until another customer came up beside him, a customer with a sunburst seared into her forehead. 

"Good morning, serah," she said in a flat voice, returning Artemis's stare until he swallowed and looked away. 

"Morning," he mumbled back. 

"Your order is on the counter, Marigold," Solivitus told her cheerfully as he slid the coins across to Artie, and Marigold took the crate without further comment. 

Lyrium potions? No, Artie heard the templars took their lyrium a different way. And they were the wrong colour and consistency for healing. 

"I wonder..." Artemis started to ask before stopping himself. In watching Marigold leave, he spotted a templar at the edge of the bazaar, eyeing him. Eye-contact. That was bad. 

"And what is it you wonder, serah?" Solivitus asked politely, leaning over his counter. 

Artemis nearly didn’t ask. He shouldn’t ask. He’d poured out that potion for a reason.

"I wonder if, since you are in the habit of crafting certain mixtures, you might know how to make magebane?" 

Solivitus didn't answer for a long moment, and Artie feared he would ask why Artie needed it. Instead, all he said was, "Of course. I also have a few such potions on hand." 

Artemis slid back one of the coin, and Solivitus handed him another vial, one suspiciously like the crateful Marigold had just carried off. 

"I already had the lyrium." 

"Sorry?" Artie asked with a blink. 

"Deep mushrooms, deathroot, felandaris, and lyrium." Solivitus gave him a meaningful look, but Artemis couldn't for the life of him figure out what that look was trying to say. "But best leave it to me to do the mixing." 

Another weak laugh, and Artemis left as quickly as he could without fleeing, afraid to see if that templar was still watching him. 


	4. That's Not What Brooms Are For

Noise. So much – _too_ much – noise, the kind that crawled inside Artie’s ears and scratched at his still-sore brain. He fiddled with the pitcher, turning it so the handle was parallel to the length of the table, then turned his tankard to match, then Anton's, then Varric’s. He eyed Fenris’s but didn’t touch it.

“What are you doing, mage?”

Artemis flinched at Fenris’s voice. “Just giving my hands something to do."

He looked up to see Fenris eyeing him curiously, and Artemis wondered just how absurd this looked to him. Fenris turned that considering look to his drink and turned his tankard so that the handle faced the same way. In an instant, Artie’s itching eased.

“Thank you,” Artemis said, visibly unclenching.

Fenris shrugged. “I am curious to see how it tastes from this side.” Fenris never really grinned, not the way Artie and his siblings did, but the skin around his eyes crinkled in amusement. "How is your head, by the way? I have been meaning to ask."

Loud. Exhausting. "Still full of nonsense."

"I suppose even magic can't fix that."

When Fenris stood to refill the pitcher, Bethany slid into his seat. 

“Sorry,” she said without sounding sorry, “is this seat reserved for attractive elves?”

“I suppose not,” Artie said grudgingly.

Bethany caught Artie fidgeting with her tankard and swatted his hand away, turning it back the way it was. The itch returned. Artie’s fingernails scraped rhythmically against the table before he picked up his drink again just to still them.

“So.” Bethany leaned in, propped her chin up on her palm. She tipped her head in Fenris’s direction. “Just how far down do those tattoos go, anyway?”

“ _Bethy_!” Artie dribbled whiskey down his chin.

“What? I’m curious! You can tell your dear sister.” She batted her eyelashes.

Artie tried to wring the whiskey out of his shirt before it stained. Her tankard still wasn’t facing the right way. “I wouldn’t know,” he mumbled.

Bethany sat up, looking her brother up and down. “What? With all the time you spend with him, I thought…” She trailed off, eyes softening in pity. “Ohh, is that why you’ve been crankier than usual?”

“Cranky? I am not cranky!” Artie protested, crankily.

“Artie, sweetie, this morning you snapped at me because I didn’t fold my underwear into a perfect square.”

She handed him a kerchief, and Artie offered her a sullen “thank you” before using it to dab at his shirt. “I’m a mage,” he said, still fussing with his shirt to give his fidgety hands something to do. The magebane vial was a conspicuous weight in his pocket. “He has… issues with mages, and with good reason.”

And Artie hadn’t gotten laid since Ostagar. It was getting distracting.

Artie sneaked a glance at the door, at Fenris, only to find his – no, not _his_ – the elf with refilled pitcher in hand, trapped in the doorway by Isabela and her breasts. She stood closer than necessary, and… touching. She was touching him, and he wasn’t growling. Just with one finger, but it traced the tattoos he seemed to hate.

“Artie. Diamondback, yes or no?” A sharp pinch on his arm brought his attention back to his sister.

“Ow! What?”

“Varric is ready to deal.”

At the head of the table, Varric waved and made no effort hide his amusement. Artie cleared his throat.

“Right. I… sure. Hold on, we’re not betting, are we?”

“Warm-up round,” Anton answered from across the table. “So you can get used to the idea of losing all your money to me before you actually do.”

“We live in the same house, asshole. What does it matter?”

But as he spoke, Artie’s mind fixated on two things: Fenris with Izzy, and his sister’s crooked tankard. He tried again, but Bethany still didn’t let him fix it. With a whine of frustration, Artemis distracted himself with a long drink, aware of Varric dealing and his sister watching him.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this,” Bethany murmured. “Or… well. Maybe once.”

“What, drinking?”

“ _Pining_. You don’t just _want_ him. You want _him_.”

Artemis straightened. “I am not pining!” he protested. “Why would I be pining? There are plenty of other attractive men in Kirkwall! Attractive elves, even!”

On Sundermount, too. He wondered if Theron’s offer were still open. Assuming it had ever _been_ open, considering his wife.

“Oh, Artie.” Bethany patted his head indulgently. “If you pine any harder, you’ll turn into a tree.”

Artemis sulked over his pint, his cheek propped up on one fist. Only she was allowed to make any of her brothers look this miserable, Bethany decided. She left Artie alone and sauntered in Izzy’s direction. Izzy looked up from where she was all but pouring her cleavage in Fenris’s face, and Bethany bent to whisper something in her ear. Suddenly all of Izzy’s attention was on her, and Fenris made his escape.

Another sip hid Artie’s relieved smile when Fenris sat next to him again.

“What are we playing?” Fenris asked, setting down the pitcher and his drink so that the handles faced the right way.

 

It was well past dawn when the game broke up and everyone went home for the night (morning), and Artie wanted so badly for Fenris to follow. But when Fenris said 'Goodnight', he called Artie 'mage' and didn't look back.

Mage. The word circled in his head through the walk home while Anton and Bethy raced, laughing, to the door. Mage. The one thing Artemis was tired of being.

On Gamlen's steps, not quite asleep and not quite awake, Artie decided he could stand to not be a mage for a day.  

This time when he brought out the magebane vial, he drank it in one go.

 

Half an hour later, Carver found Artie in the middle of the street, waving a broomstick and yelling at the wall. 

“What the fuck,” Carver muttered around a bite of noodles, holding the bowl under his chin. 

The idiot was drunk again. All Carver wanted to do was eat his noodles in peace, and he considered leaving Artie to it, but his brother was going to end up stabbed if he kept yelling about – did he just say _wasp_ spawn? 

“For fuck’s sake, Artie,” Carver called out, approaching his brother from the side so as not to startle him, “if you’re going to get sloshed, just stay at the Hanged Man, will you? You’re going to scare the neighbours, and— _ahh!_ ” 

Carver ducked just in time to avoid a face full of flailing broom, and then Artie was grabbing his arm and pulling him behind him. Noodles fell to the dirt.  

“Too many, too many, I can’t. Sword, where’s your _sword_?” Artie’s words tumbled out, one on top of another. 

“What? That was my _breakfast_ , you blighted nutcase!” But then Carver got a good look at Artemis, at pale cheeks and shaking hands. His eyes were a ring of blue around blown pupils. “What’s the matter with you? Did Bethy hit you with something?” 

“Back,” Artie said, eyes wild and trained on something only he could see. " _Back_!" Artemis backed up and tripped over nothing, and Carver steadied him but got a broom to the crotch for the effort. 

“ _Ow!_ Shit! There’s nothing there, Artie.” Carver grappled with his brother, wrapping his arms around him from behind and pinning his arms to his sides. Close to his ear, Carver reminded him, “Darkspawn don’t look like wasps, and we both know it.” 

Artemis’s flailing slowed, stilled, as the wild look of horror softened to one of confusion. “They… they don’t, do they.” Artie still watched something only he could see, flinching away from nothing. “I don’t… what?” 

“Whatever you’re seeing, Artie, it’s not real. Come on. Let’s get you inside.” 

“Fenris… I was going to… _Fenris_.”  

But Carver was already pulling him in the other direction. “You’re not going anywhere near Hightown in this state. You can visit your boyfriend tomorrow.” 

 

The Hanged Man was closer than Gamlen’s by that point, and if Carver couldn’t have noodles, he could have whiskey, preferably while someone else babysat his older brother. It wasn’t until he’d all but dragged Artie inside that it occurred to him that he shouldn’t be able to manoeuvre Artie at all. 

Carver steered him straight to Varric’s suite and pushed him into a chair. 

“Why, hello!” Varric muttered from the bed, under a pile of sheets. “By all means come in. Never mind the door. Or knocking.” 

“Get Anders.” 

That caught Varric’s attention. He pulled the blankets down and sat up, looking first at Carver and then at Artie. “Nervy, you don’t look so hot. What happened?” He was already climbing out of bed, fixing his nightshirt to cover the important bits.

Artie’s teeth chattered as he pulled his knees up, curling into a ball. He scratched at his head in a way that would leave marks. “I just… I just wanted to turn it off for a little while.” 

“Turn it off?” Carver asked, squinting. He pulled Artie's hand away from his head. “Turn what off?” 

Varric stepped in front of Artemis, gently took his chin to get a good look at his eyes. He nodded, as though that confirmed what he’d expected. “Nervy. Hey. Eyes over here. Do you want to tell us what you took?” 

“Took?” Carver’s voice was sharp. “What do you mean ‘took’?” 

Artie’s gaze skittered away from them both. He mumbled something about Fen and earthquakes and _why oh why did the Maker curse him with magic_ , and Carver swore. 

“ _Magebane_? Andraste’s pearly thighs, Artie, are you _nuts_? Where did you even…? Auugh!” 

Varric patted his arm. “I’ll send a runner for Anders. Keep him from reorganising my sock drawer.” 


	5. That's Not Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *pulls out chart* This is your brain. This is your brain on Magebane. --anti drug PSA sponsored by Anders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Penbrydd was kind enough to write the Cormac bits in this chapter. ~~I have more experience with Artie's bits, myself.~~

Anders arrived looking pale and wild, the over-taxed and over-tired kind of wild, with Cormac at his heels. Artie couldn't decide if the waspspawn had brought them in too, the way they swarmed over his brother's face, but, real or not, it was good to see Cormac.

"Y’missed Diamondback Night," Artemis said, shaking hard enough to rattle the chair against the floor. "I don't like Diamondback. Anton cheats."

"We'll go back to Wicked Grace Night," Varric assured him as he heated a pot for tea over the fireplace. In pants again, Maker be praised.

"Won't stop Anton from cheating," Carver muttered.

Anders knelt in front of Artemis and took his wrist, looking at his eyes and counting his pulse. Varric's runner had said something about magebane, but there were no templars in sight. 

Cormac kicked over a chair and sat down beside his brother. "Hey, kiddo," he said, quietly, taking Artie's free hand in his own. "Not looking so good. The message said something about magebane. You want to tell me what happened?" His other hand rose up to stroke Artie's hair in a soothing rhythm, the same as he'd done nearly every other time he'd seen Artie start to shake. This time, though, he wasn't sure if it was just Artie, or if that was the magebane.

Artie closed his eyes and leaned into that hand. The hand in his hair felt solid and so did the hand grasping his. He smacked his lips. "It tastes funny," he mumbled.

Anders huffed in agreement, letting go of Artie’s wrist. Artie’s pulse was fast, but not quite fast enough for him to be more concerned than he already was. "Yeah,” he said. “It's pretty vile stu--" The word trailed off into nothing. "You _drank_ it? How?"

Artemis couldn't feel his fingers, but the empty vial was around somewhere. He'd kept it for Anders.

"Was it here?" Cormac asked, eyes suddenly hard. "Someone slip something into your drink? Just tell us what happened, and we'll fix it. We're going to make everything all right again, hm?"

And that sounded nice. It did. But then Carver was pulling that soothing voice away, and Artie opened his eyes in time to see Carver's fist collide with Cormac's shield. "He did it to himself, you idiot!" 

"Not in front of our brother, Carver. He doesn't like the mess," Cormac said, quietly.

Varric pointedly cleared his throat and patted Carver’s arm. "Hey, Junior, why don't you come sit down. Have some dwarven tea."

With a tight jaw and a glower, Carver obeyed, steaming as much as the tea.

Cormac straightened his shirt before he sat down again. "How much did you drink?" he asked Artemis, not knowing if the answer was at all important, but in cases like these it was almost always how much and not just what. And speaking of what, this was Artie. "Did you have anything with it?"

"All of it," Artie slurred, his eyes following something just to the left and down from Cormac's face. He paused to swat at it before resuming his quest for the empty vial.

"All of what?" asked Anders with dawning horror as Artemis finally handed him the vial. "All of _this_?"

Artemis hummed and tried to huddle closer to his brother. Cormac was warm and safe and solid, and if Artie closed his eyes, he couldn't see the waspspawn crawling over his face.

Anders sputtered, looking helplessly at Cormac before turning his attention back to Artie. " _Three drops._ That's all you needed. What in the name of Andraste's frilliest knickers compelled you to drink this?"

"Jus’ wanted it to stop," Artemis said against Cormac's shoulder.

"This tea is terrible," Carver mumbled behind them.

"I said it was dwarven," was Varric's answer.

Cormac sighed and wrapped his arms around his darling idiot brother. "You never wanted this, did you? But, it's just as much you as it is me or Anders or Bethany. You make the best of what you are." He petted Artie's hair and eyed Anders, hoping for some solution. "But, why now? I thought we were doing all right. I thought you were ..." _too drunk to care_. "What changed?"

Artemis squeezed his eyes against the moisture gathering there. The words were there in the back of his throat, but they burned. Too many words. Too many answers, all of them not enough and too much at the same time, all of them sticking in his chest. He didn't answer, couldn't answer, when some of those words were sharp and unfair: _you weren't here_.

"Artie," said Anders, voice soft, "please tell me this doesn't have anything to do with Fenris."

Cormac groaned as all the pieces came together in his head. "Earthquake Boy wanted to stop the earthquakes. I haven't felt the floor shake since we got to Kirkwall, but I just figured you wouldn't be doing that in the house. I mean, I don't do that in the house, either. Not really polite. Even less polite now that there's five of us sleeping on the floor in the same room." He rested his face against the top of Artie's head.

Cormac's robes muffled Artie's broken laugh. "N’many earthquake-safe places in Kirkwall," he admitted… or tried to, considering the drunken slur that masked the words. At a particularly violent shiver, Anders caught Varric's eye and gestured, and moments later Artemis felt the weight of a blanket falling across his shoulders.

"I'm not sure what earthquakes have to do with anything," Varric said cheerfully, "but I'm not gonna ask."

"Don't," Carver agreed. "You're safer that way."

Varric pressed a cup of tea into Artie's hand, taking a moment to wrap Artie’s fingers around it and to make sure he wouldn't just drop it into his lap. "It's terrible," he said, "but it's tea."

Tilting his head to look at the cup, Artie said, "Of course it's terrible. There's waspspawn in it." In it. On it. Around it. Crawling, crawling, crawling. He scratched at his skin and took a sip anyway.

Cormac mouthed 'later' to Anders, over Artie's head. "Kiddo, you're seeing things that aren't there. There's no waspspawn. There's not even any wasps. I promise you I'd have noticed if there were." He shot another look at Anders. "Is this normal? Is he supposed to be seeing things?"

“In a word? No.” Anders took Artie’s chin gently in hand to get a better look at his eyes. There was drool gathering at the corner of Artemis’s lips. “But then, people don’t generally _drink magebane like it’s juice_ , so that might be it. Either that or he’s having a bad reaction to something. In either case, it should work itself out of his system. It’s just going to take a while, and we’re going to need to keep an eye on him.”

“I found him in the middle of the street, you know,” Carver said, “waving a broom around.”

"Darling brother dear?" Cormac held Artie's face in his hands and leaned back a bit. "That's not generally what people mean when they say 'clean up the streets'. It also helps if you put the bottom part of the broom on the ground and drag it, instead of waving it like a pennant." It shouldn't have been funny, but the image was frankly hilarious, and somehow so deeply Artie. Cormac choked back a laugh, trying to suppress it behind a strained smile.

"Like you know how to use a broom," Artie weakly teased back. His smile didn't quite reach his eyes, not when his eyes were still focused on something only he could see. "I did something very stupid, didn't I."

"Yes," Carver said at the same time Anders muttered, "A bit."

"Don't tell mum?" Artie asked Cormac with pleading eyes.

"And, what, get us all killed? _No_ , I'm not telling mum." Cormac moved his hands out of the way and pulled Artie back against his chest. "And don't you do it, either, Carver. You already know what she thinks of mages other than dad, and none of us need to hear it again. She's wrong, too. It's not a curse. It's not a thing you love someone for or despite, any more than a talent with swords or archery or knitting." Not for the first time, he wished their father had survived. He'd know what to do, what to say. "No matter what happens, you're my brother, and I love you." He raised his voice a bit. "And you too, you little turd. No matter how many times you punch me, you're still my asshole little brother."

Carver muttered something unkind, but Artemis smiled against Cormac's robe. Oranges. His brother always smelled like oranges, and Artie wondered if he was hallucinating that too even as he breathed in as deeply as he could. He couldn't feel the crawling on his skin as much with that scent around.

"Well, this is heart-warming," Varric sighed. "Nervy, you can stay here for the night. I don't think Lowtown would survive another round of your street-sweeping. But if you use the bed, I refuse to be the little spoon."

Artie's chuckle sounded a little more genuine, but he clung to Cormac with the hand not holding the tea. "Stay?" he asked, knowing it was selfish of him to. But everything was cold and floaty, and Cormac was warm and solid.

"I wasn't invited," Cormac replied, quietly, "but, I'm not leaving you alone. What do you think, Anders? Take him to yours and watch him in shifts? I won't even volunteer your bed. There are cots. And that will keep all of us out of Varric's endless hair, for the rest of the evening. By which I mean, go home, Carver, and thank you."

Carver grunted. “‘Thank you’? He’s my asshole brother too, you twit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably just one more short chapter to tie things up.


	6. Epilogue

After the magebane came mortification and a headache. Alcohol, at least, helped to dull one of these, and Artemis found himself at the Hanged Man much sooner than his healer recommended, not so much sitting at the counter as half-sprawled atop it. The beer was mostly water anyway, and Varric had paid for it, which just made Artie ask himself uncomfortable questions about what Varric had seen. Or heard.

So back to drinking it was.

When Fenris slid into the seat next to him, Artemis suddenly regretted not shaving. Or bathing. Or even looking at anything resembling a mirror in the past two days.

“Mage,” he grunted.

Artemis supposed he still was. “What brings you here?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant. It was surprisingly easy to do with one’s chin on the counter.

“I am hungry, there is no food in the mansion except for the mushrooms growing out of the floor, and the abomination has warned me against eating those.” Fenris dipped his chin towards his chest and mimicked Anders’s voice “‘Unless I want to see waspspawn in my tea too', whatever that means.”

A strangled sound died in Artie’s throat, and he wrapped his arms around his head, wishing he could block out this embarrassment.

“Are you well?” Fenris asked, and when Artie pulled his arms away, Fenris looked concerned. “Your… brother said you were ill.” Green eyes flitted over Artie's face as though looking for signs of that illness.

Artemis ran his hand through his hair and tugged at the ends. “I am…” It took Artie a moment to decide what he was. “…better.”

Fenris’s expression didn’t change, not really, but Artie thought he saw something ease in the set of his brows.

“I’ve had a stupid week, Fen,” Artie sighed, resting his cheek on the counter. He would have to wash it later.

“I was unaware that weeks had a measurable sort of intelligence.”

A dry sound jostled Artie's body. “Are you saying all weeks are stupid?”

“I suppose I am, yes.”

Artie’s laugh was more unnerving than flattering, falling just this side of manic. “I probably shouldn’t find that comforting, but I do.” He sat back, wiping his eyes. “I don't know. Somehow this week seems stupider than usual.”

Fenris shrugged. “That's what next week's for.”

“I suppose.” Artie clinked his drink against Fenris’s, wood making a hollow clack against wood and drawing a curious glance from the elf. “To better weeks?”

Fenris hummed. “To better years.”

Now that was something Artie would drink to.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! Thanks for indulging me, dear readers.

**Author's Note:**

> The Maker's blessings upon [Mevima](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mevima/pseuds/mevima) for the title. "Artie, No" was a close second choice.


End file.
